


Maybe

by cannedsunlight



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Bad Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Canonical Character Death, Depressed Hank Anderson, Existential Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Unreliable Narrator, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28323099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannedsunlight/pseuds/cannedsunlight
Summary: Connor may not feel like he fits anywhere, but as far as Hank's concerned he fits into his arms just fine; folds into a crumpled form of Connor he doesn't know but knows how to hold, or at least that's what he thinks. It doesn't take long for Hank to see the flaw in the way he's chosen for his days to take place after that night.Neither of them are okay, least of all Hank, who takes Connor up on his offer to be anything he wants him to be without ever telling him, after it's already too late, if that's even still applicable to his situation.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Kudos: 7





	Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> A case of creative liberty. Neither of them are okay, least of all Hank, who takes Connor up on his offer to be anything he wants him to be without ever telling him, after it's already too late, if that's even still applicable to his situation. Tread carefully.

Connor may not feel like he fits anywhere, but as far as Hank's concerned he fits into his arms just fine; folds into a crumpled form of Connor he doesn't know but knows how to hold, or at least that's what he thinks.

There's hardly ever any way of telling whether Connor accepts or surrenders, unless – until – they reach a certain point where it's unmistakably clear: It's clear when Connor not only melts into the embrace but reciprocates it, not only grows into a state of deflating somehow but the one where his arms come around his sides, hands up his back, it's then and only then that Hank can maintain with the highest degree of confidence he can muster that it's truly, _truly_ wanted, only then do they seem to both drop down to a deeper level of mutual understanding. It's usually reluctant, and awkward, and rare.  
  
He clings to those as if his life depends on it. It might.

He could be wrong. He might be. His confidence is an _old man's confidence,_ as Connor had said once – it's old, it's chipped, and it's lonely – but he refuses to let that deter a surprisingly firm wish to uphold or at least try to uphold – refuses to let that spark die down, refuses to question one of these new-found, one of these last small bits of almost-good, and no, it's not through association, is it?

He doesn't keep Connor around because it invites more life into his home than just him, invites something _back in –_ it's difficult to tell sometimes, almost is like color seeping into chrome, and back out; difficult to tell what's where and when, on a level next to dully draining daring daily life.

Connor, too, is in himself color seeping into chrome, every day a new breath, fuller, more, and Connor wouldn't let him _keep him around_ if he knew that that is all it is.

Unless that's all he stays for and is simply too polite to put it into words; maybe they're both too polite to put it into words or maybe Hank's simply too scared to risk letting go of that small rope, unreliable but visible, maybe Connor thinks it's already obvious and simply waits it out.

It doesn't take long for Hank to see the flaw in the way he's chosen for his days to take place after that night.

Neither really push forward. They simply endure each other and live side by side, a talk at the kitchen table every now and then, a talk in the car more often than a talk at the table; there's enough to talk about, but neither side really seems to want to. It simply comes up. It's an odd mix of being direct and not being anything at all. He can't place Connor in it all; he can't place him anymore. Perhaps never could to begin with.

Or maybe that's simply his side of it, and it paints things grey. He's not alright, after all, not magically okay, can't just brush it all aside, can't untangle himself just like that simply because now is a good time to be available maybe; can't do more than put the maybe in the good time and least of all put a maybe in himself; he could do more if he could, and so he watches.  
Connor watches him, too, in moments like this, and his face is unreadable, offers free space to reflect oneself, gives a good reason to look away; he simply takes out the empty bottles, boxes, litter. Sometimes he sits back down afterwards. Sometimes he stays in the living room instead. Sometimes he doesn't return at all for a while.

Hank thinks he can tell where Connor begins to bloom, where it is exactly that his circuits fire rearrangement; like he could possibly point a finger: that's something where there's been nothing before ( or differently ), the change is stark enough to be noticed. I've got it. Change is visible, some of it.

Thing is, the more complex it grows, the more difficult it is to pinpoint. The more it grows, the more it grows, the more to miss, the more to lose. The heavier, sometimes, the more withdrawn, usually, quiet, quiet, Connor is much too quiet for everything going on inside him, Hank thinks, coating, dampening, where does it all go? Those circuits firing rearrangement – up there – Connor's head is a turbulent thing.

Sometimes he tries to follow and soon loses orientation, has to turn back around, sometimes he tries to pull him down to where he is, give him something for his way back, some old man's wise words and then he can only hope for them to be listened to, for them not to be discredited before they can have any effect because there's more reasons to than he wants to count for that to happen, because he can only go so far and Connor can go both ways, they both know this.

Where are you? Where are you, Con? What's going on in that head of yours? And Connor looks at him, doesn't say anything, turns away and looks out the window, Hank can see his face reflected against the backdrop of the rainy city. And Hank digs until he hits a _I don't know,_ digs until suddenly something snaps and Connor dissolves into a broken _please, please, please_ , until Hank has to stop the car, drive up to the side of the road, and, panicking, asks: Please what? Please what? But Connor doesn't answer; maybe because he doesn't want to, maybe he regrets being where he is when this happens, maybe because he simply really doesn't know; and maybe Hank doesn't know either, because he can only go so far, and there's no clear hint yesterday's Connor has given him that he could compare it to.

Would ya come back, Hank asks one day; they're on the road again, if I threw ya out right now.

Connor doesn't reply, for a good moment; possibly thinks but doesn't say something about the directness of it, something reproachful or disappointed - instead he leans over to plant a kiss right on Hank's mouth, rough, and sloppy, given their positions, then leans back into his seat without letting it be seen what just took place; and Hank curses, hands tightening their grip on the steering wheel. Neither his initial question nor Connor's response seem very out of place for either of them. He feels ashamed of it.

Maybe, Connor says. But I know you won't. Not yet. It's too soon.

Hank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks for a tissue, door or middle console, but doesn't find anything. Waddaya mean, too soon?

He can see Connor watch him in the reflection of the window; does that a lot – whenever; it establishes a sort of personal layer between himself and whatever else is with him in the car. Too soon for you to be alone again, he says.

Quit it. Quit it. You don't even _feel_. But you started it. You seem to think that I do. You seem to want me to. After everything you still want me to. You don't even feel.

We don't know that.

He may not feel like he fits anywhere, but as far as Hank's concerned he fits into his arms just fine; but maybe that's a hopeful maybe because maybe he's wrong about it all, or a good part of it, and Connor knows exactly where he fits; Hank's arms can hold many things, above all a wishfully shaped nothing, now; the time Connor spends with him is miniscule, compared to his overall lifespan – but, maybe, he knows where he _doesn't_ fit or doesn't want to fit, if anything, that's an end to one thing and a beginning to another.

It takes Hank a bit of time to see the flaw in the way he's chosen for his days to take place after that night. He may just have invited something into his house – he might've been better advised not to. Connor himself would probably tell him this if he asked. Sometimes Hank thinks that Connor is too chipped around the edges himself to make it without him – or _anyone_ , but that usually translates to _him_ when he, in turn, translates _anyone_ into _no one_ – considering the dried patches of blue on the seat next to his – and he feels ahamed of this, too, but only if he translates it into a possibility in the morning after a drunk night.

One of these mornings, then, he thinks: He doesn't regret having planted a bullet in Connor's head that one time.

He also doesn't regret having thrown him off the roof.

He _does_ regret having come back down to check if he's still alive, all in all, somehow, there's a few things to be said about pity and taking advantage; both of which are heavy in their own right, neither of which really change anything in the big picture – something to be said about a lack of balance – he can only go so far, Connor's too polite by humoring him, as sarcastically and _something_ as that may be, it's just a thing of waiting it out, something to be said about avoiding a small bit of information the size of a hole blown through a skull.

Something to be said about the way Connor had been lying in the snow, bent, rasping, wheezing. Jesus fuck, you really still are alive, and Connor asks: Had a change of heart? Splutters out the words through a smashed ribcage, blue seeping out of his mouth, down his cheek, his neck. Heart meaning more than just one thing here and he can't fucking tell if it's intentional or not, but the irony of his statement isn't lost on him, of course not, something to be said about how he had felt about it all. Again. And again. And again.

The time he can offer Connor is barely worth mentioning, but maybe, maybe – maybe even that is too much.

He can't hold onto him anymore the moment Connor changes shape. And then it'll be back to before – not quite, but close enough - and although he half-heartedly expects it, he might not actually see it coming until it's too late. Because he's still holding on; and because Connor, despite having built up this new form to carry elsewhere, won't give him anything to compare it with when that time comes. He's sure it's deliberate, and he expects no less given his side of it.

Things can only go so far. Hank knows that once he gets rid of it all Connor won't return. Not this time he won't. He'll simply turn around, leave the house and never come back. Not his time. Hank's arms will be empty enough to welcome what lies beyond and his head will be, too, a fractured final relief to a heavy heart.

Things can only go so far and he'll never understand what went on in that damn android's head, that impact – off the roof and into the wide open night air, might as well have never hit the ground, will never understand what possibly could've moved him to stay for as long as things _did_ go this far. Surely not simply because he'd indirectly asked him to. Surely not simply because he, in turn, had never said no.

Because, after all, he's been right about this one thing, eh? Surely maybe. He doesn't really want to think past that despite the fact that he easily could. He doesn't really need to.

_Even after everything, you still want me to_. You pulled me back up and carried me home. Into your lonely, lonely home. Connor's hand is awfully smooth on his cheek, kind of unnatural. Too gentle to be real. Too gentle to be earnest. Unless his earnestness is directed at something else and it simply looks the same. He's tired. He's fucking tired. Says as much. Do you pity me, Connor? But Connor doesn't reply. He waits. Sleep now, Hank. Sleep now.

A fractured final relief.

I'm sorry, son. I'm sorry.


End file.
